


Mirror, Mirror

by PenPistola



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Competence Kink, Forging (Inception), Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPistola/pseuds/PenPistola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saito is fascinated with the idea of forging within dreams—and with the forger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally two separate minifics, but I've put them together as a multichaptered fic instead.
> 
> You can also read it on my LJ [here](http://pen-pistola.livejournal.com/5440.html#cutid1) and [here](http://pen-pistola.livejournal.com/5771.html#cutid1).

"Fascinating," Saito gushes as they trail Browning (the "real" one, that is) in his winding course through Arthur's dream hotel. Eames grins. Saito's managed to get over the shock of discovering he'd been duped by the forger rather quickly, channelling it into curious enthusiasm instead. It's odd seeing the usually collected other man so eager about something, but any flattery is good flattery to Eames. So he humors the other man when the questions start coming.  
  
"Who is the blonde woman?" Saito whispers as Eames pulls them into an alcove. Browning seems a tad on edge, pausing every now and then to look around him, and it makes Eames wonder what exactly 'Mr. Charles' is getting up to with Fischer himself. Perhaps they'll wait a moment to follow.  
  
"Her name is Brigid," Eames explains with a sly look in Saito's direction. Saito answers with a conspiratorial smile. "She was a lounge singer I saw once in Chicago. Struck me as somebody people might be... interested in."  
  
"Oh, certainly."  
  
Browning's moved on a bit, having hung a sharp left around the corner. There are no alcoves in which to hide in the hall Browning's chosen, so Eames and Saito carefully peep around the corner to watch where he goes.  
  
"He's taking a roundabout route to the room," Saito realizes.  
  
"Yeah, I'm not surprised."  
  
The silence only lasts a couple of seconds. "So why wasn't your reflection disguised as well?" Saito breathes. Browning ducks into a service passage, and the two men tiptoe after him.  
  
"An interesting question," Eames says with a smile. Forgery has always been so fascinating, and sharing it with someone else only moreso. "The structure of the dream exists due to the dreamer. The projections, like our Mr. Browning, are here because of the subject. Forging works the same way; it starts in the mind of the forger." He taps a finger to his temple. "But you see, as much as you and poor Mr. Fischer are fooled by my forgery,  _my_  brain isn't. You and I and the rest of us enter a dream looking like ourselves, because it's how we perceive ourselves. What you see in the mirror is just my own subconscious perception showing through."  
  
"Brilliant!" whispers Saito happily, and Eames chuckles. The way Saito's eyes go tight at the corners when he smiles is really quite adorable. Unfortunately, while thinking about his response, Eames has managed to lose Browning.  
  
"Shit."  
  
Saito ducks around him and indicates a door leading back to the hotel's main hallway. "Through there. Pay attention, Mr. Eames, _kudasai_."  
  
Eames doesn't want to return Saito's smirk, but finds himself doing it anyway. "Observant."  
  
Another question seems to occur to Saito as they creep after their mark; Eames can tell by the cant of Saito's head as he turns around.  
  
"Can you forge in only one language?" he asks. "Or, like the guns, is it something you can manipulate at will?"  
  
"Aha," Eames grins. Saito really is quite on his game today with the questions. No one's asked him so much about forging in a long time, and though he feels his attention slipping away from Browning again, he can't help but answer. "I can't do just any language, but I can some. The guns are quite easy to recreate in dreams, but you still must needs have at least seen one in order to do it. My little M32, for example, I'd tried at a firing range in real life. I knew how it was 'supposed' to work, and while I didn't know the exact mechanics of the thing, my brain filled in the rest."  
  
"Ah, I see," Saito nods. "I presume forging works the same way? If you've got experience with a language, you can make it work?"  
  
"Well, in a way."  
  
"Am I incorrect?"  
  
"Not as such." Browning is getting closer to the hotel room where Cobb and the others should be now, and Eames puts a hand on the grip of the Walther P38 he'd dreamt for himself. "In order to be truly convincing, you have to at least speak a functional version of the language you're trying to imitate." He turns to Saito and grins. "But there is a bit a' leeway for yer accent." Saito blinks at Eames' uncanny reproduction of a southern US drawl. "Les détails sont votre responsabilité. Più meglio parlate la lingua, il migliore le vostre probabilità. Sou desu ne?"  
  
By the end of it, Saito's mouth hangs open a bit. "Mr. Eames, I am impressed."  
  
"It's why, Mr. Saito, I'm simply the best." Eames bows with a flourish. "At using forgery for extraction, and as a means to provide...  _other_  services."  
  
Saito raises an eyebrow. "Quite a talent." They round the next corner and there Browning is, approaching the room the others are waiting in. Time to move. But Saito's voice is close and obscenely low when he next whispers in Eames' ear. "Truth be told, Mr. Eames, fascinating as forgery is, I much prefer you as you are."  
  
Eames is so surprised that he forgets to attack Browning; it's Saito's judiciously applied pistol butt to the head that brings the dark-skinned projection down. Eames hurries to catch up with Saito and gives Browning a few kicks for good measure before the door opens to the rest of the team standing there with Fischer.  
  
Eames nearly forgets about the whole thing until the gunshot wound catches up with Saito and Cobb has to go and bring him back. They all wake up on the plane again, blinking and wondering whether they were actually able to pull it off; if this is reality. Then Eames catches Saito staring at himself in the mirror of the men's room at LAX after they've arrived. He stands behind Saito, and they lock eyes with each other's reflections. Eames winks.


	2. On the Wall

Eames is standing at the curb of LAX airport waiting for a cab when he hears the voice again, not inches away from his ear. "We meet again," says Saito, moving to stand beside him. A cab has stopped in front of them, but Saito takes Eames by the arm and steers him back away from the curb.  
  
"Saito?" says Eames, questioning, but he feels a thrill run through him because he thinks he knows where this is going. He knows, and he's not entirely bothered by it. Not at all, actually. Sure enough, Saito leads him gently around the sidewalk to a handsome black Mercedes parked a few dozen feet away.  
  
"After you, Mr. Eames." Saito smiles lazily and opens a door for him. Eames slides into the leather seat with an expression of mingled anticipation and bewilderment. This is good, could be good, but it seems so out of the blue. So does the kiss that Saito attacks him with when he climbs in next to him. Eames is shocked, momentarily, but as strange as this feels it also seems  _right_  in a way. Each of them had something invested in this job. They've all shared in the emotion of it, even Eames, who'd had little to lose and everything to gain. What they've been through together... there's no erasing that. So he kisses back. Saito bites at his lips and probes with his tongue, begging the entrance that Eames is all too pleased to give him. He feels the older man's hands running up his sides, then down over his arms, and in less than three seconds flat he's so hard he could die. He breaks the kiss a moment later, if only because all the blood has rushed from his head, and if he doesn't get some oxygen he's going to pass out in Saito's lap. The car takes a turn (when had it started?) and Eames shoots a glance to the driver. The driver, however, is doing a bang up job of ignoring them fooling around less than a foot behind his head. Saito grins and Eames decides not to worry about it.  
  
They're still lip-locked when they reach Saito's hotel (no, really, he owns the whole hotel) what seems like a few seconds but is really more like ten minutes later. Eames juggles the poker chip in his pocket incredulously as Saito breezes right past the front desk and takes them on the direct elevator right up to the penthouse suite at the top. It's a long ride made even longer by the fact that Saito's hands are now probing insistently at the waistband of Eames' trousers and feeling him through the rough fabric. They spill out into the short hallway between the elevator and the suite, and Eames doesn't even get a look at the place after Saito has them in the door—he's busy being slammed against the wall as Saito kisses him and grinds against him furiously. Then suddenly he's moving lower, unbuttoning Eames' shirt and leaving a wet trail with his mouth as he goes, and despite the fact that his knees are about to go out, Eames has the wherewithal to ask Saito a question for once.  
  
"Ah, Saito," he gasps as the man's teeth graze a nipple. "Not that this isn't bloody amazing, but... why?"  
  
Saito pauses in his ministrations, looking up at Eames with a spark of annoyance in his eyes at the interruption. "What do you mean, why?"  
  
Eames lets out a huff of a sigh. "It just seems as if, since Cobb was the one to rescue you from Limbo and all..."  
  
Saito climbs back to his feet, fingering Eames' collar. "Perhaps, Mr. Eames, perhaps. But Cobb is not the one I want."  
  
As if to punctuate his words he gives Eames' cock a squeeze, and in an instant Eames has forgotten all about it. All he can think about is Saito's hot mouth sucking on his neck and his fingers that are in the process of dexterously undoing both of their belts and flies. Eames shifts a bit lower against the wall as Saito's hand finally snakes in, pulls down his boxers and wraps firmly around his cock. He can't quite stifle a groan as the older man starts stroking him, the other hand moving to snatch Eames' and direct him to do the same. They set up a quick and even pace, each jerking the other for all they're worth and Saito's thigh shoved between Eames' and grinding against his balls.  
  
"F-fuck," Eames bites out, but he's silenced by Saito's mouth over his. The other man groans into him as he steadily approaches climax, his motions going jerky and strained. Eames can't help but be seconds behind; this is so overwhelming that he can't believe—he's seeing stars—is this even— _fuck_!  
  
Saito's pulsing in his hand as he comes, and his knee is the only thing keeping Eames still standing as his own orgasm rips through him like a tiger. Or something. He can't spare a thought to think about it, not when his mind is so blessedly blank and his body twitches in the pleasurable aftermath.  
  
They spend a moment in silence, until Eames is fairly certain he's able to think again and finally opens his eyes. There's come on his hands, come on his stomach, and come all over his and Saito's indubitably more expensive dress slacks.  
  
"Damn," Eames remarks at the mess. "Arthur would cry. He'd-"  
  
"Oh, probably," Saito grins and cuts him off again. With his mouth. Eames doesn't mind.


End file.
